Covered Wagons: we'll drive them some day

Andy's convinced the world is going to end, but he doesn't remember telling me this.

It was the spring of 2004 when we had the fateful conversation. We were at Josh's house, eating ice cream -- I have no idea now what flavor or brand. Andy was back in town from his private liberal arts college in the pacific northwest, and the three of us had been enjoying a pleasant evening of companionship, frozen treats and conversation.

Just before we parted ways, however, Andy steered the conversation to more somber matters, specifically the predictions of a particular prophet/bestselling author who had it figured out to the hour when doomsday would occur. Because we'd made it so far without any real awkwardness, and because my departure was pending anyway, I went along with the conversation, saying nothing in favor or against these views. Josh, however, nodded along and chimed in with a bemused "yeah," and "really?" every so often, which only encouraged Andy's espousal of these apocalyptic views.

Finally I excused myself, bidding a warm farewell to my two friends. I held my laughter in check long enough to drive around the block, but by that point I had been keeping a straight face too long to want to even crack a smile.

Later, I mentioned the conversation to a couple of other folks, who said they'd heard of the doomsayer but couldn't think of his name. I wasn't terribly interested in researching the matter further, but at least I knew Andy wasn't the only proselyte.

I didn't see Andy for another two years, at the Ad Astra per Aspera CD release party at the Record Bar. He was in town until he could save up some more money to return to his college in the pacific northwest, and in the meantime his arm was in a sling as the result of some kind of snowboarding mishap.

When I asked what he had been up to, he said his chief interest of the last several weeks had been researching the exact history and location of the Oregon Trail. His uncle had come into some land outside of Lawrence, which Andy suspected had lain directly on the course of the Oregon Trail.

In order to research this, he'd gone to the Spencer Research Library in Lawrence and dug up some old trail maps of the area. Using these "ancient scrolls," as he called them, Andy had determined that his family's land did indeed lie where the Oregon Trail used to be.

Upon hearing the words "Oregon Trail," I immediately hearkened back to my own history on the Oregon Trail, all of which took place on the Apple IIE computers in my grade school's rudimentary computer lab.





I told Andy about my long-held wish to write a Bildungsroman about my time on the trail, which would consist of a series of flashbacks to the times when I'd needlessly killed hundres of pounds of buffalo, died of dysentery a dozen times over and always forded the river even when I couldn't afford to.

Where most people my age would chime right in with their own stories of Oregon Trail computer game mischief, Andy remained silent, patiently waiting for me to finish so he could continue talking about his research. It was then that I realized that he was serious, that his interest in the Oregon Trial was more than some ironic diversion and reflected a true historical interest in our proud state of Kansas.

It turns out Andy had even been talking to the employees of the nearby Ritz Camera store about the history of the covered wagon statue just a stone's throw from where we were standing at that very moment. Anyone who's driven by the Westport Road/Southwest Trafficway intersection has surely seen this monument to pioneer days, an authentic covered wagon mounted in gravel in the corner of the parking lot. At Christmas time, it's decorated and lighted up to look like an Old West version of Santa's sleigh.

I don't know what exactly the people in the camera store had said to Andy about the wagon, just that it was a sturdy piece of equipment that wasn't likely to go anywhere soon.

"Shucks, Andy," I said to him. "Some pre-apocalyptic weekend, you and me are gonna take that sucker for a spin. We can roll all the way down Westport Road and then swing up to Loose Park to fire the cannons one final time."

"Pre-apocalyptic," Andy repeated, a smile spreading across his face. "I like that."